


such a delicate thing that we do

by moeexyz



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon, flirting and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moeexyz/pseuds/moeexyz
Summary: Jack and Kent, and Kent's favourite place in New York.





	such a delicate thing that we do

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Simple Song by The Shins.
> 
> Please know that on all levels except physical, this fic was directed by Barry Jenkins.

 

 

"You know, we're kind of losers," Kent says. 

The summer heat's been relentless these last few days. Jack feels like he could be in Florida or California instead of just New York. Kent seems unaffected by it, revelling in any opportunity to wear the ridiculous Spongebob shorts he owns for some inexplicable reason. Jack's not going to make some crack about how Kent is—in most legal senses—an adult, but only because he sees the hypocrisy of saying it now, while sucking on a blue slushie like he's twelve years old. And if he sees it Kent will see it.

Jack hums for Kent to go on.

Kent had opted for the cherry popsicle instead of the slushie earlier. His lips are unnaturally red. Jack's working very hard not to notice, but he allows himself the opportunity when Kent starts talking again. "We've never even been on a date. In our lives."

"We've gone on dates," Jack says. They do stuff together all the time. To an obnoxious degree, some would say.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Zimms," Kent says, affecting an air wisdom that he most certainly did not earn. "A date requires pretence. And planning."

And then Kent catches Jack staring at his lips. Jack gets a split-second smirk before Kent starts making lewd gestures with the popsicle.

Jack rolls his eyes. "You're gonna choke on that."

"Yeah? How would you know?" Kent asks, knowing exactly how Jack would know.

Jack won't give him the satisfaction of a response to that, so he says, "Technically, we planned _this_."

They're going to Coney Island. Kent loves Coney Island. He's been talking about bringing Jack there since the very first suggestions of Jack coming to New York. They saved it for today—their last day before driving back up to Montreal for the rest of the summer. Kent's been in a good mood since waking up, an anomaly for Kent ' _Won't-Wake-Up-Before-Noon-If-He-Doesn't-Have-To'_  Parson. Jack's in a good mood because Kent is.

"This had no pretence though," Kent says.

"What exactly do you mean by pretence?" Jack asks. He doesn't think there _needs_ to be a pretence with someone you've been with for the last year and a half, but it feels awkward to say that. They've never put a word to what they are, resting easier with the chance to claim plausible deniability, should they need it. Hooking up feels flippant. Anything else fells like...well. The draft is in twenty-seven days.

Jack takes a gulp of his slushie, letting the cold soothe the sudden dryness in his throat. His pill bottle feels lumpy and conspicuous in his pocket.

Kent explains. "You know. There's all the giddiness of when you realise you like someone. Then, there's the giddiness of working yourself up to ask them out. Then, the giddiness of actually going out and trying to impress them. It's not a date if it doesn't have all that."

'All that' sounds like the most exhausting thing Jack's ever heard. "I didn't know dates had so many rules."

"Well, how would you? You've never been on one," Kent says, licking at stray popsicle juice dripping down his hand.

It's bizarre, but it's this that hits Jack low in his gut—not Kent's red lips, or his over the top attempts at being suggestive. Just this. Just Kent, absently licking his own wrist because he can't even eat a popsicle like a grown adult. Jack wants to shove him against the wall and taste the cherry on his tongue.

Kent stops, licking at his lips as he glances back at Jack, unaware of Jack staring at him. Their eyes meet and Kent's eyebrows tick up, like he can see it all on Jack's face. Jack expects him to make a joke out of it—start pretending to blow the popsicle again—but instead, Kent's cheeks go pink and he looks at his feet, a shy, little smile on his face. Almost bashful. Like it's still a pleasant surprise that Jack likes him.

Some sort of feeling curls in Jack's chest, warm, and delicate, and weighty in his heart. He's been getting that a lot lately.

Kent clears his throat, smile drifting into something more self-assured. "Anyway, I wouldn't put out on the first date, so." He nips at the top of the popsicle. Jack tracks it with his eyes. "Guess that's a win for you."

He hip-checks Jack, trying to walk ahead like he made some sort of point, but he trips, stumbling on nothing.

"I think you're right about _you_ being a loser," Jack says drily. Kent just grins at him over his shoulder.

 

-

 

The sun's bearing down on them by the time they make it to Brooklyn. Jack can feel it on his face, stinging at his cheeks. They're ill-prepared, queuing up for rollercoasters under the hot sun with nary a pair of sunglasses between them. They're lucky Kent's mom nagged them into wearing sunscreen.

Jack feels agitated. They're surrounded by people on both sides. Large, loud American families with handheld fans, and fresh bottles of water. His slushie is gone. He's just stuck here, sweaty and impatient, while Kent points out tourists in stupid shirts like he isn't wearing Spongebob shorts. There's nothing to do while waiting in a queue except look around at the people surrounding them, except, the more Jack looks the more it feels like other people are looking back. There's a kid, with a Yankees hat, and chocolate ice-cream smeared all over his face, who won't stop staring at Jack. He's too far for Jack to read if it's a stare of recognition or if he's just being a kid, but it sits uncomfortably under his skin.

Jack fiddles with the pill bottle in his pocket, capping and uncapping it. The sounds of people around them obfuscate the rattling it usually makes when Jack does this. It's enough that Kent won't notice.

Except _that_ thought sends a brittle wave of guilt crashing over Jack.

Jack pulls his hand out of his pocket, crossing his arms, angling himself so he can't see the kid anymore. There's nothing to distract him from the wait now. He scans Kent, looking for something he can poke at for amusement. The red on his lips is fading now. His eyes are mildly squinted from the bright light of the sun. His snapback is backwards, because of course it is.

"Why are you wearing your hat like that?"

Kent considers it for a moment, then flips it the right way around, shielding his eyes from the sun, shifting them from green to brown instantaneously. He gives Jack a smug smirk as if to say  _don't_ you _feel stupid now?_

Jack smacks the lip of the hat down over Kent's face.

He catches Kent's smile under it, before Kent shifts the hat back into place, and schools his expression. "Oh, you think you're funny?"

"Oh, you think I'm not?" Jack echoes, lips curling up. He reaches out to do it again, but Kent shoves his arm away, gripping his wrist for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

"Stop it. You're embarrassing me in front of all the Manhattanites," Kent says, pretending to be scandalised.

"You did that yourself, wearing those shorts," Jack retorts.

Kent does a fake laugh that's supposed to be an exaggerated imitation of Jack's. A dumb little _Ha Ha Ha._ It's the same one he does to chirp Jack's dad.

Jack smiles at Kent, amused by Kent's cheap attempts at teasing. Kent smiles back like he can't stop himself. For a moment, they just stand there like that, smiling all goofy at each other.

Joking around with Kent always feels so natural to Jack. Like a no-look one-timer. Jack likes himself most like this—matching Kent's wit, like maybe he could also be funny, and sharp, the way Kent is. It dissipates some of the weird energy that was bugging him earlier.

The queue shuffles forward, breaking the spell.

Kent takes a step, half turns back towards Jack, and asks, "How are you with rollercoasters?"

"Fine," Jack tells him honestly.

"You have to let go on the drops," Kent says, seriously.

"Is that a rule?" Jack asks, just to be snarky.

"It's a Parson rule. I'll excommunicate you, if you don't," Kent says with a little raise of his eyebrows—a dare.

Jack licks his lips. "Far be it from me to break a Parson rule."

Kent grins, all teeth.

They're both good with roller coasters, but Kent screams for every single one anyway, like they might really die there. Loud, animalistic screams that must tear at his throat. He squeezes Jack's wrist before every drop. "Arms up, Zimms!" Like Jack needs the reminder. But Jack doesn't point that out to him. Just swings his arms up, full force, ignores the self-preservation instinct begging him to put them down.

Jack screams with Kent as they fly down. Screams for his life. Let's the adrenaline rush pump him up, the same way hockey does. Pacing his heart somewhere way above normal. The way he feels sometimes, when Kent kisses him.

After their third ride, Kent pulls him towards the carnival games, flushed and cheerful. "Come on. I wanna kick your ass at the ring toss."

Jack lets himself be pulled. He can feel the muscles in his cheek setting from the stupid beaming smile he's giving Kent. It's reflexive. Kent's magnetic here—his love for the place seeping out, spilling at Jack from every corner. Jack can almost feel it too. It feels like some part of Kent's soul must have been forged at Coney Island. Jack sees a bit of Kent in everything here.

"Some would say you're delusional, but I think it's good for you to have unrealistic goals. It builds character," Jack chirps.

" _Beelds charactair,"_ Kent throws over his shoulder, in that terrible French accent he does to tease Jack.

Jack goes for Kent's hat again, but Kent manages to duck away just in time, giggling like a menace.

"Tu es un dickhead _,_ Jaques Zimmermann." He says it like _deek 'ead._ Jack knows he knows how to say it in French. He's just trying to be annoying.

"You know, if I win you can never use that accent again," Jack says.

Kent halts abruptly, stepping tight into Jack's space, stopping them in the middle of everyone. "And what do I get if I win?" He asks, smirking deliciously. A thrill runs rapid through Jack. A uniquely Kent Parson effect.

Jack considers it. Figures Kent's imagination would serve them better than his. "Dealer's choice."

It sparks in Kent's eyes, green and solid from the fierce light of the sun. In a perfect Quebecois accent, Kent says, "Très intéressant, monsieur Zimmermann."

It flusters Jack a little. He ducks away—hiding his rapidly warming cheeks from Kent's quick eyes—setting them back on the path to the ring toss. Kent trails behind, calling out every French phrase he knows off the top of his head, in the shitty accent again, just to purposely butcher it.

 

-

 

Kent beats him at the ring toss and is just as unbearably smug about it as Jack expected him to be. It's not new territory for them. They've always been competitive. They almost got locked in the rink once because they started a game to see who could score first while facing the other way. It's usually fun playing games with Kent. Or it used to be.

It pricks at Jack now though, the way everything seems to prick at Jack, these days. For the last few months, every part of their lives has felt like a competition, regardless of how Jack and Kent feel about it. Jack likes the challenge; he just hates comparing himself to Kent. Kent's good at making things look easy. Nothing feels easy for Jack. The more he sees it in Kent, the more it curdles in his gut. Jack hates himself for it, but his stupid brain can't let it go.

"What do I _want_ for my prize," Kent says slowly, as if he's pondering it carefully, smirking all the while.

 _He's just chirping_ , Jack thinks. It's good-natured chirping. It doesn't matter.

The draft is in twenty-seven days. Jack's chest feels tight.

"Best of three," Jack says, flatly.

Kent hesitates, and for a moment Jack feels a stabbing anger like maybe Kent knows, and he's not going to let Jack try harder. Like maybe they might address something, right here, right now, at the ring toss booth in Coney Island.

In the end, all Kent says is, "Fine, but you're not getting out of it again." Like this is at all about some stupid prize Kent might want.

Jack ignores him. They play.

Jack can sense, objectively, that he's not thinking straight. Every shot Kent lands flares at him. Every shot he misses feels even worse. He's trying to keep his head on right, to just fucking land one, so he can prove to himself that he's not actually this useless. But it's all slightly off. Some annoying pop song is being played too loudly. Some kid is screaming behind them. Kent throws a ring on the hook with a swift motion of his wrist, like he's been doing _this_ his entire life, instead of hockey. Jack throws one and misses, again.

And Kent, of course, wins.

 _He's had more practice_ , Jack thinks. Over, and over, and over again, like a mantra. Kent's been coming here since he was a kid.

Kent throws a look in Jack's direction, like he's not entirely sure if chirping is warranted this time. Jack's just as aggravated by that as he would be by the chirping. He turns, faces away from the booth to watch all the families milling about the boardwalk. The screaming kid is in his mother's arms, being bounced up and down—the mother's desperate attempt to calm him down. Not that it's doing any good. The kid continues, his face red and ugly from his violent cries.

Jack looks away.

It's just—whenever anyone asks about the draft, Jack can't answer—too caught up in all the possibilities. Every possible expectation laid at his feet, as if he's the only son of a hockey player to ever exist. And Kent—Kent  _won't_  answer _._ Kent must be able to say the press answers in his sleep at the rate he's using them. He uses them with everyone. With reporters. With friends. With Bad Bob, even. With Jack. Probably. If Jack ever asked. Diplomatic like he's the fucking president, or something. And it's that that's most telling. Because if Kent didn't want to go to Vegas, Kent would just say so. But he hasn't. Kent wants to go to Vegas. Kent wants to go first, and he _could._

He'd make it look easy.

The guy running the booth is explaining to Kent which prizes he can get for winning. Jack shoves a hand into his pocket, while Kent's distracted. Pops the cap on the bottle. Closes it. Opens it again. Lets a pill slip into his hand. Focuses on the dry feeling of it against the skin of his palm.

They got up early today, because it takes two hours to get to Brooklyn from Kent's house. The last ones Jack took were in the bathroom of Kent's house, while Kent was still asleep. Apart from the other two he took in the toilet, on the train into the city. But that was just to pre-empt the nerves of being around too many people. If he needs more Jack should take more. That's how it works.

"You want the clownfish or the penguin?" Kent asks, nodding to the plush toys zip-tied to the wall.

"I don't want a toy," Jack says, stubbornly. Waits for Kent to turn back before bringing pill to his lips.

Kent twitches next to him, like he registered the movement, but he doesn't want to look. Jack can feel the ghost of it in his throat. He clears it.

A few months ago, after Jack blacked out for the fourth party in a row, Kent said, "Maybe you should slow down on those a little." And thus, began the biggest, ugliest fight they've ever had. Jack can't remember much of what he said, too caught up in the moment, feeling defensive, and ashamed, and terrified all at once, lashing out just to hurt Kent enough to make him _leave_ , so Jack wouldn't have to stand there with Kent looking at him like _that._ So concerned. So  _afraid._  As if he knew a single thing about it.

Kent _did_ storm out of Jack's billet eventually, and then they didn't speak for almost two weeks. Two weeks where all Jack could do was vacillate between hating Kent and hating himself. The worst two weeks of Jack's life probably. Until Kent sat next to him on the bus to an away game, and said, "Look, can we just be done with this. We're playing like shit." And Jack agreed, even though Kent started it, because that was better than having no Kent at all.

Kent hasn't brought it up since, but that concerned look that twisted in Jack's stomach still flashes when he sees Jack taking his pills, so Jack tries not to let him see it anymore.

"What can we get that's not a toy?" Kent asks the ring toss guy.

The guy running the booth hands him something. Jack doesn't look to see what it is.

"Thanks," Kent mutters, and walks away, without checking to see if Jack's following.

Jack guesses irritation is better than concern, at least.

He knows he's being an asshole, but it's piercing at him, and with anger comes the part where Jack stops being able to breathe. Kent knows that, even if he doesn't like the reality of it. Jack needs the pills. That's why they gave them to him. It's fucking fine.

Ahead of him, Kent fiddles with whatever stupid prize the ring toss guy gave him.

"You know those games are rigged, right?" He says, evenly.

Jack looks away, clenching his jaw to hold back on saying something stupid like, _they're rigged for everyone to lose, not for you to win._  He wonders what empty platitudes Kent will throw his way if he's drafted first.

"Zimms," Kent says.

When Jack looks, Kent takes a picture of him with a disposable camera. The prize, it seems.

"Now that your mood is saved for posterity, you wanna start being fun again?" Kent asks. He says it matter of fact, but Jack doesn't miss the temper in his tone. Jack wonders if Kent would start a fight here, in this place he loves so much. Kent's patience for Jack's moods tends to fluctuate, but it always runs out quicker when he's in a good humour and Jack ruins it.

"Sure," Jack says.

Kent presses the camera into Jack's chest and walks on when Jack takes it. "Twenty-six left. Don't waste 'em."

Jack trails behind him.

Kent makes them stop at everything to pose for a picture. A guy playing the cello on the boardwalk. A couple of seagulls perched on a wall. A dude holding a _Free Hugs_ sign. Jack can see it for the blatant distraction it is, but he lets himself fall for it anyway. It feels better to focus on framing Kent than it does to think so much. There's more space for the pill to take effect, this way—easing his mind, slowing his heart.

They wander slowly down the boardwalk, Kent occasionally taking the camera and forcing Jack to be in a picture with something mundane like a hot dog stand, goading Jack into making silly faces to spice up the picture. Bickering about it is enough to mollify their shitty moods.

Jack settles. Mostly.

The camera makes him think about this place. The little corners of it—photogenic somehow despite how ordinary it all is. Despite all the people packed around here, sweating and shouting, and crowding it with imperfections.

"Why do you love it here so much?" Jack asks. "I thought you hated all the NYC tourist traps." Kent flat out refused to take Jack to the Empire State Building.

"I do," Kent says, mildly. After a beat, he adds, "We came here all the time before Lindsay was born. It was fun. Kind of stopped after that."

'Before Lindsay was born' is code for before Kent's dad took off without explanation. Jack peeks at Kent. Kent's staring out ahead, seeming for all the world completely untroubled by any of this.

He rarely talks about his dad. Even less about his parents as a unit. Usually when he does, it's always punctuated by some footnote about how his dad is a fucking asshole. Sometimes, when he's drunk, Kent gets maudlin enough to suggest his dad never loved him at all. Jack doesn't know how he's supposed to respond to any of it, but he thinks if he ever met Rick Parson in the flesh he might punch him in the face. Someone ought to.

Kent doesn't go the usual route though, turning to Jack, instead, to say, "My parents had their first date here."

Well that explains all the date talk from earlier.

"That's sweet," Jack says for lack of better response. He looks around, wondering what Kent's mom and the man who would eventually leave her did while they were here. Was it a good date? Did he kiss her on top of the ferris wheel like in the movies? Did Rick Parson think, back then, that he could give up all the worst parts of himself for her, or was he just that much of a remorseless prick?

"Yeah," Kent agrees, voice soft.

Jack steps closer, letting his arm brush against Kent's as they walk.

 

-

 

They go to the aquarium because it closes in an hour so the crowd is thinning out, and because it has A/C. Kent rushes ahead, throwing looks at Jack over his shoulder with childlike glee, like he needs to make sure Jack's seeing this sea-lion too. Kent likes animals with the same wonder and excitement of a toddler. Jack thinks that's what Kent would do if he wasn't a hockey player. Something with animals. Jack wishes he had the camera ready just to catch the astonishment in Kent's eyes.

There's a family crowding the penguins, so they stop at the otters. There's two swimming in the water, gliding back and forth, gracefully evading each other. The others rest casually on the surrounding rocks.

"You know otters mate for life?" Kent says. He has his arms perched on the barrier, chin resting on them, staring attentively at the two swimmers.

Jack watches a pair of otters asleep on a rock, curled up together, like a picture-perfect postcard for the aquarium. Jack thinks anyone could mate for life if their lives were short enough. "How long do they live for?"

"Like, almost ninety years, or something."

Jack raises his eyebrows, impressed. "Really?"

"Mmhm," Kent hums, but there's something in his tone. When Jack looks at him, he finds Kent looking back with a barely suppressed smile.

"You're not funny," Jack says drily.

Kent really does smile, now. Amused. "I don't know why you thought I'd know that."

He pushes away from the enclosure, starts heading towards the building where all the tanks are, very noticeably brushing past Jack to do it. Jack follows him, wanting suddenly to stick close to Kent's side as much as possible. Just to keep his presence there.

"You're the one spouting facts about how they mate for life," Jack says.

Kent shrugs. "Yeah, everybody knows that. It's like how penguins mate for life, or seahorses mate for life."

"Guess there isn't plenty more fish in the sea," Jack quips.

Kent bursts out laughing, a loud, joyous cackle. It's infectious, shooting an easy warmth through Jack. He wants Kent to do it again so he can take a picture, capture Kent like that for whenever they're apart.

Or just. Whenever.

"That was a good one," Kent tells him, opening the door for Jack, laughter still in his voice.

Once inside, Jack loses Kent pretty quickly. Too excitable to keep up with. It prods at some feeling in Jack's chest, but it's—whatever. There's fish for Jack to look at.

While Jack's staring at some eels, Kent squeezes himself to Jack's side conspicuously. Jack looks at him sidelong, trying to figure out what nonsense Kent's going to pull him into now.

Kent nods at the tank next to them, and says, "That's you."

There's a fish there, some species Jack doesn't know anything about, floating in place with its mouth opening and closing placidly, while all the other fish move around it. Jack scans the thank for another silly looking fish. Settles for the twitchy one in the corner.

"The little red one's you."

He sees Kent's playful smile in the reflection of the eel tank. Kent bumps his hip into Jack's, too light to be called a check, but the sentiment is there. He wanders away, all casual. Like a magnet, Jack follows.

They make a game of it—finding the ugliest fish in each tank just to tease each other. It's less about the insult and more about pressing close to each other at each stop. Kent's hand brushing erratically off Jack's every time he moves to the next one, filling Jack's chest with a fluttering warmth.

Jack's so aware of it—Kent's presence. The way Kent moves. Each little twitch of his body. The glint in Kent's eyes.

Kent presses his fingers to the glass of the tank, pointing to a tiny little fish, swallowing and then spitting out a load of pebbles, over and over. "That's you," He says, evenly.

Jack points at another one, a couple of inches away, staring dead-eyed out of the tank like it sees them. He copies Kent, pressing his fingers to the glass. "That's you"

Kent slides his hand over. Stops right above Jack's—ostensibly to point at the fish behind, though the angle's a little off, anyway. " _That's_ you."

Jack stares at Kent out of the corner of his eye. Kent's eyes slide to meet his. His eyebrows quirk. Some sort of challenge. Or maybe—more accurately—an invitation.

Jack slides his hand up, fingers slipping through the gaps between Kent's. "That's you," He says, not looking at the tank to check if there's even a fish there.

The corner of Kent's mouth ticks up. He leans closer, slightly, enough for Jack to feel it all, hyperaware of Kent's everything. Kent's eyes flick to Jack's lips, quickly. His hand moves down, touching off Jack's. Jack turns his, so their palms are flat against each other, curling his fingers over Kent's hand. Warm except for the cold press of the glass.

There's something on Kent's face that sets Jack off. Sincerity breaking through whatever Kent started this as. Jack's breath stutters, his lungs missing a step. It feels both familiar and unfamiliar—Kent looking at him like that. Jack has no idea how often Kent does it, but he knows he craves it. Kent's eyes so earnest. A brief reprieve from Kent's easy confidence. Something precious, and intimate, and unlike anything anyone else in Jack's life has ever offered him. This, Jack wants forever.

It must be obvious. Jack feels like his heart is glowing, bright and red and fond, for everyone to see. For Kent to see, maybe. Kent looks at him, and it's like the adrenaline rush of the rollercoaster. Jack thinks of Kent's hand, tight on his wrist, urging him to let go before the drop.

Voice timid, Kent says, "Jack—"

Some kid screams.

Jack flinches. A natural instinct from months of jumping away from each other at parties, in locker rooms, on the ice. Jack looks but no one's coming. Not that it matters. The warmth of Kent's body slips away, and when Jack turns back again, Kent's already gone. Staring distractedly at the other tanks. Jack can't see his face.

Jack almost wants to call out after him, but he can't make the words come. He feels half a step behind. Out of sync with the rest of the world. He wants that moment back. So many of their moments get stolen away, so abruptly. Jack wants to have that one.

He walks away slowly, to find Kent. To be near him again. To recapture _something._ Anything. Whatever it is he just lost.

There's one of those tunnel tanks, here. The type Jack associates with all aquariums—surrounding aquarium visitors in the Great Barrier Reef, and all its kind. Kent stands under it, alone, staring up at the sharks and rays drifting closest to the glass.

Jack tries to will the weird heavy feeling in his chest away, but it's lodged within him somewhere. He can't seem to swallow it down.

The reflections of the water dance on Kent's face, lines of glowing patterns morphing on his cheeks. His skin is a distorted colour—swimming pool blue. His eyes are that bright green Jack likes the most—the one that's light as a river. Like this, Kent looks ethereal. Unattainable. Straight out of Jack's most deeply buried dreams.

Something devastating claws harshly in Jack's chest. He wants to down four more pills. He wants to press Kent to the glass of the tunnel and kiss him, fraught and desperate so Kent can make sense of his heart for him like he always does. So Jack can find his footing again. So maybe Kent can say whatever it was he was going to say earlier.

On impulse, Jack takes a picture. The shutter sound makes Kent catch his gaze. Kent smiles, one of those genuine ones he just hands out freely to Jack like they're nothing. His head dips back, gesturing for Jack to join him.

They stand together, under tons and tons of water, looking at the fish, and the shark, and the turtles, and eels. Kent points at two stingrays, swimming over and under each other in turns—dancing, in their own strange way. "That's us," Kent says.

In the reflection of the tank Jack can see them—him and Kent. Distorted and faded in the glass. Kent smiling sweetly, Jack staring empty. Jack takes a picture, of the rays or them—he doesn't know—and when he pulls the camera away, Kent's directing that small, sweet smile at him.

"When I get my signing bonus, I'm buying you a real camera. With the lenses and everything," Kent says.

Jack feels like all the air's been punched out him. "I can buy my own camera," He manages to say, despite the tightness in his throat. His voice sounds small, but he can't tell if Kent noticed.

Kent shrugs one shoulder, casually. "Yeah, but it's a gift." He looks up at the rays again, smile fading now. "You can send me pictures of Vegas."

 _But you want to go Vegas,_ Jack thinks. He tries to picture it—him in Vegas, Kent thousands of miles away. Emailing and skypeing like they did over winter break. Hooking up over holidays and the few games they might play against each other. Close, but never close enough. Living off quick glimpses.

Jack doesn't know how it's so easy for Kent to just _say_ things like that. Kent _wants_  to go to Vegas. He wants it in the uncomplicated way Jack's supposed to want it. Jack feels an ugly lurch inside himself, because he doesn't want Kent to have it. Jack has to come first. He _has to._ There's ten conflicting emotions twisting inside him—guilt, and jealousy, and anger, and desperation, and loneliness, and selfish, vile, pride. Kent deserves none of it from him. Kent's just trying to play hockey and keep Jack distracted enough to be happy.

"Kenny—" Jack says, so faint Kent must not even hear him.

"You can buy me a Ferrari with yours, since I won't have to ride in your ugly truck anymore." He grins at Jack, playfully.

Jack's heart is thundering in his chest but he can't translate it into words. He wishes, suddenly, desperately, for another pill.

"A Ferrari costs more than a camera," Jack says, because if he doesn't say anything then Kent will know something is wrong.

"Good thing you're already rich then," Kent notes. He steps lightly on Jack's foot—a flirty, little gesture. He nods to the other end of the tunnel, turning to wander on again. "Come on. I think we're almost at the part where they take a stupid green screen picture of us _'underwater'_."

 

-

 

The subway is packed on the way back to Grand Central—tourists and locals both on their way home. Jack and Kent end up standing, pressed together, in a corner. Kent's gaze wanders to the people around them, and Jack's remains helplessly locked on him. His cheeks and nose are pink from the sun, new freckles blooming on his skin. His eyes are calm—honeyed brown, now that the light is dimmer than daylight. They roam back to meet Jack's, gentle and attentive.

Jack feels a foreboding sense nervousness. He wants to stop the train. Get off. Go back to the beach, the aquarium, the rollercoaster. Stay there forever. There's only twenty-seven days left, and then who knows when Jack will see Kent again. If they'll ever get to have this again.

They don't _talk_ about it. They don't push. Kent doesn't ask Jack why he needs so many pills, and Jack doesn't ask Kent why he won't just admit he wants to go to Vegas. They'll never talk about the draft. They'll never talk about what they are to each other. Jack will never know what Kent was about to say in the aquarium.

They'll go home, and do it all again on day twenty-six, and all Jack will have to show for it is a few badly exposed pictures on a disposable camera Kent got just to cheer him up.

Jack's heart feels burdensome. Sinking slowly and painfully. Locking all the words he wants to say in his throat, so that Kent will never know.

"Hey," Kent says softly, to get Jack's attention.

His hand reaches out between them, sliding lightly into Jack's. The train-car is crowded enough that nobody would notice. Kent squeezes his hand, thumb running faintly on Jack's knuckles.

"Stop thinking so much," Kent tells him. He always says that. It's never helpful, but Jack nods anyway because he doesn't know how to explain it to him.

Jack squeezes his hand back—an agreement. Kent smiles, reassuring, and leans closer. Looks down at their joined hands. Something creeps up on his cheeks—that same bashful look from earlier—entirely unexpected, but so, so lovely.

And with a sudden, startling clarity, Jack thinks: _if you said it, I'd say it back._

 

-

 

"Ma, we're home!" Kent announces, as they walk through the door. He rushes Jack to the stairs, like they could avoid the relentless, doting, kindness of Sheila Parson, just by running away. Kent's mom doesn't miss a beat, though, appearing at the foot of the stairs, somehow, before they're even halfway up.

"Kenny, you boys want dinner?"

Kent turns on the stairs. Jack keeps going without him.

"We had hot dogs, Ma."

"Are you sure? Because—"

Jack pulls the pills out of his pocket the second he has the door closed behind him, spilling two haphazardly into the palm of his hand. His heart's making a racket, wild like the last seconds of a rough game. Jack's worried Kent will see it on his face. Jack's worried Kent will take one look at him and he won't be able to breathe. He just needs a minute to think. He shoots them into his mouth, dry swallowing, and immediately feels pathetic.

He hears Kent behind the door, still calling out to his mom. "Yeah, he's fine. He doesn't want any!" Manages to shove the bottle back in his pocket as Kent steps inside.

"Jesus Christ," Kent mutters, under his breath. "I swear, she's only like this 'cause you're here."

Jack panics. Doesn't want Kent to put the pieces together. Doesn't want to disappoint Kent. Doesn't want Kent to _know._

Before Kent can get a good look at him, Jack shoves him back against the door and kisses him, and suddenly it all hits him. This day. Kent's red lips, and his bashful smile, and the soft green in his eyes, and his stupid French accent, and the press of his shoulder, and the warmth of his hand against Jack's. Jack kisses him, yearning, the way he's wanted to all day. So desperate, he thinks Kent _must_ know exactly what he means by it.

Kent puts a hand on Jack's jaw, and another on his neck. Holding him gentle like he doesn't want to spook him. He slows their rhythm. Lets Jack sink into it, until it all slows down in his head. He doesn't know if it's Kent or if it's the pills. He grips tighter at the soft cotton of Kent's t-shirt—an apology. He shouldn't have taken the pills. Kent wouldn't have wanted him to take the pills.

Kent pulls away, holding his face close. Still. Eyes searching. Jack gulps, afraid of whatever it is Kent might see. But Kent doesn't say anything. Kent leans his forehead against Jack's for a moment, eyes closed, and then he kisses him, kindly. Opens his mouth to Jack, directing Jack steadily back towards his bed. Jack lets himself be guided down to sit on the edge. Shifts back a little, so Kent can climb into his lap, letting his hands fall to Kent's waist.

They stay like that for a moment, making out like there's nothing else to do. Kent kisses the corner of his mouth. His cheek. His temple.

"Okay?" Kent asks, voice hushed, even though they already know his mom can't hear them from downstairs.

Jack nods, because he wants to be.

Kent kisses just above his ear. Whispers, "Wanna make you feel good, Zimms." A gift. A promise.

"Okay," Jack breathes.

Kent comes back to his lips. Kisses him deep, fingers sliding into Jack's hair, sending a tingle through his scalp, soothing somehow. Jack focuses on the solid warmth of Kent's body against him, and the taste of Kent's lips, and lets himself stop thinking for a while.

 

-

 

Kent's lays on his stomach next to Jack, face resting on the back of his crossed arms, eyelids heavy. Jack's content to just lie there watching him for a while. The slow way Kent's eyelashes flutter. Sleepy, but refusing to follow through with it—pleased to watch Jack back, instead.  _There's so much of you,_ Jack thinks.  _I can't carry all of it. I'm sorry._

"So what's your verdict?" Kent asks.

"Hm?"

Kent closes his eyes. "On Coney Island," He says.

Tomorrow they drive back to Montreal, and it'll be Jack's turns to take Kent to all the places he loves. To open these places to Kent—to the memories they'll make there. Their final memories. Twenty-six more days.

"Good place for a date," Jack says. "I'm assuming."

Kent's lips stretch into a smile, though he keeps his eyes closed. Jack wishes he could see them. See what colour sits there, revealing Kent's soul to him. Or maybe kiss his eyelids. Jack's heart is running a mile a minute.

Kent says, "We should come back next summer."

Jack doesn't know what his life will be a month from now, let alone next summer. He doesn't know how that's possible. He wonders how Kent could be so sure of something like that. So sure of him when Jack can't even be sure of himself. How he can just offer Jack this, like it's nothing? Jack and Kent, and Kent's favourite place in New York. This place that holds so many pieces of him.

"Sounds like a plan," Jack says. Swallows the weight lodged in his throat.

One of Kent's eyes creeps open. An exquisite, dark shade of green.

"Très suave, Jaques Zimmermann," He says, with the bad accent.

Jack smiles at him. He thinks he might cry. Maybe. If Kent wasn't looking. "Go to sleep, _deek 'ead,_ " Jack tells him.

Kent laughs, sunnily, closing his eyes, and rolling into Jack, pressing into his chest. Jack wonders if he can feel it—Jack's hammering heart. Maybe he does. Maybe he knows. Jack wraps an arm around Kent's back, pulling him close, surrounding himself with the warmth of Kent's body. He closes his eyes, and just waits, until his breathing slows to match Kent's, and the world around him starts to fades away.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have never been to Coney Island. Apologies if it's obvious.
> 
> I don't know if I like this one as much as the other stuff I've written for these two, but I've been battling with it for the last three weeks and I am Tired, so I am entrusting it to you, the people. Please be nice.
> 
> I am also on tumblr if that's more your speed: raylangivins.tumblr.com


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